Black And White
by Inquisitor Sargoth
Summary: Within the Eye of Terror, empires rise and fall almost upon a daily basis. However, the coming of a Doomed One provokes a shift in the very oldest powers that reside there....
1. Chapter 1: A Dark City

This is my first ever story - be strict with me!

For those of you too young to know of Malal, it is the fifth most powerful chaos god, a god of spite. It is driven by hatred and desire for revenge against the other chaos gods, and its servants are rare but dreaded. Each is aware of their damnation, and is granted power beyond any other chaos champion in return. All servants of chaos quake in fear at the coming of a new Doomed One of Malal...

Malal's holy colours are black and white, which explains the title.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Games Workshop products, settings or characters mentioned in this story.

**Black and White**

A city of Slaanesh, a colourful, majestic yet loathsome thing. Every building was a temple to sensation, to pleasure and pain. Some pulsed like stone organs, others swayed like their dizzy occupants. People moved through the streets in droves like lifeblood, directed by lazy guards in silver armour. Even the streets were given to the power of sensation, the floor covered in tiny metal barbs that tore at the feet of the pilgrims, sacrifices, priests and workers.

There were temples of eternal pain, where sacrifices were made in their hundreds, continually, dragged screaming or herded willingly to simple blocks and gallows, guillotines, death-altars with their horrific drills and blades, bleeding-chambers and other hellish killing-machines. The blood of the dead was used to anoint those who entered the death temples like rain, a continual stream from continual, unceasing sacrifice.

There were temples of eternal pleasure, filled with writhing bodies. Many died here, unwilling to leave and eventually starving to death amidst the pulsing, hot bodies.

Buildings had been made to invoke wonder, confusion and other senses. Some blossomed like flowers or mushrooms, others clawed at the sky as though trying to escape the evil city, some twisted and coiled higher to outdo others. Dirigibles and balloons hung in the sky above them, crazed cultists jumping to their deaths for some form of truly perverted pleasure. Shanty towns huddled around the huge edifices almost as though for protection, but their protectors sent forth soldiers dressed in silver armour and silks to drag them to the sacrifices.

A palace was built in the centre, a marvel made of obsidian, marble, silver, gold, electrum, glass, crystal and whatever else had taken the fancy of its occupants. It was beautiful, but overly so, made by those with greater resources than taste. It looked as though they had mixed together countless famous building styles, the great main entrance hid behind fluted pillars and gothic arches, the palace's luminaries and hierophants gazing out from glass domes atop the great palace. Men looked out from huge silver spires, higher than anything else in the city, and they could see beyond it, to the farmlands distant, where people toiled by day and worshipped Slaanesh through their pleasure by night. What these watchers did not realise was that the toil was as worthy to Slaanesh as the pleasure.

The ruler of this city, this world, spent every second of its time in a fairly large room, a perfect sphere built out of perfectly polished silver that reflected everything within like a great mirror, as though the ruler was one among infinite identical creatures. A simple throne made of old wood, varnished to prevent rot, was hung in the room upon numerous chains, some made of human hair, of bone, one made of tongues that had spoken the spells that had helped make this chamber what it was.

Everything in this room had true history. The hair had been the hair of Slaanesh's fallen champions, containing a distant echo of every forbidden pleasure up to and including their death, the very throne was made from the wood a tree that was said to have stood at the centre of countless apocalyptic battles, feeding upon tainted blood and growing huge and black, absorbing the extremes of sensation only battle could bring. It mattered not the occupant of this room if it looked attractive or was expensive - gold was useless to it, steel more interesting in the uses to which it could be put.

A daemon of Slaanesh that never needed to move. It could control everything here, a spider in a web, controlling its small empire within the Eye of Terror. Here it soaked up the pleasures of the city and could taste a tang of those from outside it through the spells that saturated this chamber with the warp. The mirror-like silver was a window to the future, the past, through time and space. It could look anywhere, with enough effort.

The Eye of Terror was the cradle of Slaanesh, and the haven of chaos. Empires rose and fell, but a few endured, ruled by the very strongest and wiliest daemons. These were often fairly small, but powerful. Each of these daemons was an enemy, plotting against one another, but the power needed to depose of the others would have meant destroying their own empires in eagerness for war. These armies weathered Khornate invasions, frequent things, daemonic mistakes, the odd rampaging Greater Daemon and even the wrath of Chaos Space Marines. The master (or perhaps mistress) here had links with a Legion, it was an ally and supplier of the Emperor's Children

Its real name was secret, but it was called the Seraph by its allies, enemies and servants.

The Seraph had been mortal once, but that was so long ago. It couldn't remember whether it had been male or female, and it took both forms. When it spoke to its servants, it appeared in their mirrors as a man or woman depending on the sex of the watcher, and it was so perfect that it could not be disobeyed. In the times when it had fought, it had chosen the form of a great armoured creature, almost human but fiercely androgynous, smiling benignly as it slaughtered armies with its bare hands. Here, with none watching, it chose a form less beautiful to an untrained eye. Utterly naked, without a scrap of clothing or flesh, yet it did not bleed. Arteries pulsed as though skin was present. A heart beat slowly, bright blue eyes gazed from muscle-ringed eye sockets. Even the throne it sat was free of blood, bile, or any other bodily fluid that was so clearly visible.

The mirror-sphere was currently half in brilliant, perfect illumination, blazing white. The other half was the darkness within darkness, dark enough to be called dark light. It was the lightless colour only obtainable by a black hole. Perfectly half of the Seraph's body was dark, the other blazing light.

So. It was back, then, ready for revenge, what it lived for. It had stopped this foe in its youth, killed its fell champion with his bare hands.

It was a facet of true chaos. It embodied despair, stagnation, hope, change, pain, pleasure, rage and hatred. It was the one thing even his empire could be destroyed by. It had no political agendas, no empires of its own to guard, no greater quests to distract it from the Seraph, and it had power and intelligence unlike the hordes of Khorne worshippers who attacked and died, their lives once devoted to destroying sensation giving sensation to Slaanesh with the agony of their deaths.

Malal.

A Doomed One was coming. A mortal, more powerful than a daemon prince, perhaps even stronger than the Seraph itself, was coming. Was it simply for revenge, or was a higher agenda at stake here?

A watcher would have thought the Seraph would have tightened security, readied its empire for attack, but it did not. Few would understand initially that there was little point - A single Doomed One was coming, and only by its attack could anything be learned about it.

With a horrifying calm, the Seraph stared at the endless void and oblivion on either side of him, knowing he looked into the very eyes of the Hand of Malal.


	2. Chapter 2: A Deal

The Tower of Pleasure was a great black and smooth stone edifice that stretched high into the sky above one of the Seraph's empires many cities, on the outermost world. It was the seat of power, ruled by the Lady L'Marr, who had a direct link to her master by a mirror attuned to the sphere the daemon dwelled inside. She was aware, like her master, that a Doomed One approached the empire, but she had no idea that the Hand of Malal would come here first.

The bottom door of the tower was simple heavy wood, heavy and barred several times. Two legionaries in silver armour and silken cloaks, carrying spherical shields and short swords guarded it, pistols holstered on their belts.

Kheléqui emerged from the lesser municipality stepping up the wide stairs that led to the great gate, swords drawn. They paused, placing their shields before them in defensive positions, waiting for attack. Another crazed pleasure seeker, probably, but from his size he would be a tough one.

Kheléqui walked up to them, and one charged. The Doomed One stabbed him through his shield, lazily. The man fell to the floor, gasping, and Kheléqui removed his head.

The second Legionary was warier, backing to the door. Kheléqui turned aside his desperate stab and tore him apart. The swords split the door apart and he strode through, killing the guards behind it that been blinded by splinters.

It was not long before the inhabitants of the tower were aware of a stranger in the midst. To most this would have been unwelcome, but to the servants of Slaanesh it was chance to pursue sensation they had not felt for some time. Baying, whooping servants of pleasure came screaming with anticipation as they attacked Kheléqui. He tore them apart with the minimum of effort, parrying their clumsy attacks and killing then cleanly, his sword carving through other weapons and their bearers with ease. They had received no formal training in arms, they had learnt how to fight from a life of battle. In his way, so had Kheléqui but Scylla was a far better place to learn such skills and putting them into practise was essential.

Kheléqui tried to make their deaths as quick and clean as possible, to rob them of the dying agonies they would so enjoy.

Kheléqui continued up the long, winding stairwell, leaving bodies in his wake. The mistress of the tower could feel him approach.

She was still relatively human in features, but her eyes were black and wider than normal. Her face was pale, perfect as though it had been sculpted. She was lithe, attractive, but muscular. Her pale handed were terribly scarred, however, but she no longer saw them as her true hands anyway. She was naked, to display her luscious body, tattoos and devotional scars.

She looked into the mirror, a great polished silver piece that curved around a small round room and over the roof into a dome, a perfect half-sphere It was the highest room of the tower, and was entered only by a ladder of golden thread. It would break if someone a pound heavier than L'Marr put a foot upon it, and the woman was as light as she was beautiful. The trapdoor was also protected by an enslaved daemon - only a true servant of Slaanesh could overpower its essence and live.

"Seraph! The Doomed One is here!" she cried, her voice soprano and elegant, words flowing from her pale tongue and thin, supple lips like music, poetry.

"Face him," replied the Seraph, his words harmonising gently.

"Yes, master," she intoned, without a hint of reluctance. She left the room, and when into her own chambers below. She took out her whips, which were an leathery black, and gripped them. Suddenly the tiny haft extended over her hand, barbs digging into her hands so that they could not be removed until they had their fill of pleasure. She bit her tongue at the pleasure as her rich blood seeped down her wrists and dripped onto the floor and ran slowly down her body.

Kheléqui ascended the final stair to the chambers atop the tower, and two final guards in golden armour attacked him, centurions, champions of chaos with little compare. One carried a two-pronged spear, designed to pin, and a short, one-edged sword made to decapitate. The other wielded a small spiked mace of dark iron in one hand and a stabbing-knife in the other. It had no edge, just an exceptionally sharp point that would easily punch through even the strongest armour.

The Hand of Malal was revealed. He was huge, easily seven feet in height, and he had a handsome face, pale with strong cheekbones and dark eyebrows. He had a long black ponytail, tipped in purest white. Kheléqui's left eye was totally white, his right utterly black. One void, one oblivion. He wore only neat black trousers, devoid of decoration. His pale skin was marked with black tattoos that had grown out of his very flesh. They were of tendrils and talons clawing down his arms and legs, up his neck to his chin. They did not quite touch his face, but curled away from it. His body was a mass of daemonic hands, claws, tendrils and similar, in some maddening pattern.. His back was adorned with tattoos of midnight black angel wings. In each hand he gripped a sword with but one edge, and a point made for stabbing. One was black with a white handle, the other white with a black handle. Both were coated in blood, as was the alabaster skin of the Doomed One.

The first guard moved quickly, thrusting with his spear. The black sword cut the spear in two. The other blade moved faster than the eyes of any watcher bar the Seraph, and the man's head fell off. The other swung his mace at Kheléqui, but the Malalite ducked back and then flew forward , stabbing both swords up the very haft. He pulled them out and kicked the body aside.

The mistress of the tower charged, her whips hissing as they sliced through the air, her true hands revealed at last.

Kheléqui's chest and back burst outwards, his tattoos coming to life. Black claws, hands and tendrils writhed upon his chest and abdomen, and two great wings unfolded from his back, splattering the room with blood and pieces of torn skin.

The mistress of Slaanesh faltered for a moment before renewing her attack with greater fury, whips slicing across Kheléqui's flesh, cutting him. She danced around him, her whips leaving gashes and bruises across his body. He swiped at her once or twice, but she dodged aside with prenatural agility, writhing and dancing like one of the cities many pleasure girls. She giggled, and winked at Kheléqui, but then one sword found its mark and left deep gash in her left arm, bright blood dribbling onto her whip and arm. She moaned in masochistic pleasure, and her attacks became fiercer, faster. Like so many of Slaanesh's favoured servants, pain fuelled her.

A whip wrapped around Kheléqui's leg, barbs driving into her skin. L'Marr tried to pull him over, but her whip let go of the Doomed One's leg with a squeal as the sword moved downwards to slice it.

What Lady L'Marr had no idea was that Kheléqui was testing her to see how much effort the mistress of the tower would need to kill. Not enough, it seemed, for this charade to continue for any longer. With a symmetrical movement he severed her hands, whips attached, at the wrists. They writhed on the floor, dying. The mistress closed her eyes and panted in pleasure as her blood haemorrhaged all over the floor, but Kheléqui grabbed her by the throat with one of the clawed hands upon his chest, lifting her off the ground.

He swung both swords, and she fell apart in front of his blank eyes.

He strode onwards, ignoring the sights of L'Marr's personal chambers, and he proceeded through to the mirror room. The golden ladder of thread was nothing to him, his wings beat and he cut the ladder down. The enslaved Slaanesh daemon sent spurts of fatal pain and shivers of lethal pleasure coursing through his body, but he forced the vile power of the Flesh God from his own, stabbing hard with the white sword. The trapdoor, emblazoned with dark symbols, melted away into black curling smoke with a parting scream. He rose into the dome, surveyed it slowly, then drove each sword into the silver. The false mirror of silver shattered as though it was a real mirror, and in a moment of endless reflected universes from each shard Kheléqui leapt into a fragment that showed the gaze of the Seraph.

He emerged inside the Seraph's silver sphere, through a ragged crack it seemed. His wings held him suspended in the air, facing his anatomical foe.

"Seraph."

"Doomed One. To whom do I have the honour of addressing?" replied the Seraph in its usual overlapping tones. Kheléqui could see the larynx move, see the throat tremble as the words were formed.

"You may address me simply as the Hand of Malal."

The name of another god had not been spoken in this room ever. Muscles twitched on the Seraph's face in angry annoyance.

"Very well, Hand. What brings you here? Business or pleasure?" it trilled.

"Business, Seraph, but don't worry. I won't kill you yet, that would sadly come under pleasure. I'm here to make a deal."

"Really? Do my girls have such a good reputation? Or would you prefer my boys?"

Kheléqui did not rise to it. "If you wish, I can kill you and find another willing to negotiate."

The Seraph chuckled beautifully. "Name your deal, Hand."

"There is a man Malal wishes dead, although man is certainly not what he should be called. A daemon prince, like yourself, one of the god you hate so much; Khorne."

Speaking that name was even more of an affront than Malal. The Seraph scowled.

"He has built himself an empire, or at least a base, upon a world. He has sent raids and attacks out for centuries, testing for weaknesses in empires like your own and destroying others. Many Khornate raids have been the actions of the Vermillion Knight. He is a daemon prince of Khorne who thinks. He plans. He plots the best ways to provide the most bloodshed and death and a result is much more favoured than most of Khorne's daemons, crazed killers and nothing more. He must be put down."

"Why cannot you kill him, Hand?"

"He is powerful, Seraph. Probably more so than you, and he is protected well from any attack by excellent soldiers, not the incompetents you posted in the tower, and enslaved psykers. I can give you his location, and you will wage to war against him. I will be there to strike the killing blow."

"And in return?"

"You live, Seraph, as does your empire, at least for a while."

"To do this would render my empire weakened, unprotected. The cursed Nurglite Dagon has been making advances for some time against my empire, stretching his forces towards it. Were I to send legions to battle some distant foe he would attack."

"Perhaps, but rest assured if he does so he will soon regret it. What would happen to his empire if he died?"

"The people of it would become confused - it has remained unchanged, stagnant and stable for longer than any of them have lived. It would splinter, the greatest champions fighting one another for power, his armies clashing. Other empires would raid him, pirates would gleefully attack, lands once protected now lawless killing zones. Khorne forces would be drawn to the conflict quickly."

"And so you lose an old foe. Your will empire be protected far better by you agreeing to my offer than what your soldiers offer."

"Why should I trust you won't kill me the second the Vermillion Knight falls?"

"You have my word."

"Is the word of a Malalite worth anything?"

"It is worth more than the word of a Slaaneshi, snake."

The Seraph shrugged, Kheléqui watching his shoulder blades pulled around by various twitching muscles, slick with blood.

"So it will be, then,"

The daemon held out a hand, offering Kheléqui to shake it. He could see muscles around the bones of his fingers, see the white knuckles, see the pulsing arteries pump blood there.

The Hand of Malal took it wordlessly and shook it lightly. It felt wrong, but not a drop of blood was upon his hand when they let go.

"I shall leave you now," Kheléqui said a smile crossing his stony lips "I'm sorry about your mirror, and your whore."

The Seraph made a dismissive gesture. It knew what it was.

Kheléqui was gone, but the hateful presence of Malal still filled the befouled room simply from the mention of its name and that of the Slaughterer. It would need to be replaced utterly.

The Seraph smiled to itself. A new chance to pursue new sensations was never to be ignored.


	3. Chapter 3: City of Blood

They called it a city, but to almost any watcher such a name was a lie. A city implies civilisation. Buildings were crumbling, broken old edifices that few lived inside. Most had fallen into ruins. The inhabitants lived mostly in tents, and the only recent buildings were crude and made of old wood. There was only one industry, run by slaves, and that was the construction of weapons, war machines, guns, swords and axes. Hammers rung on forges throughout the city. Food was all taken from stolen supplies or enslaved farmers, or beasts that the inhabitants hunted. The only buildings that the supposedly free went to were the palace and the amphitheatres. In the latter, the inhabitants of the city battled captives, slaves and wild beasts for their own enjoyment, all willingly. They all believed themselves to be free, unlike the slaves, no knowing they too were slaves, not to the will and whim of their master, but to their uncaring god.

The palace itself was made of stone, a stolen building at the centre of the city, but kept im a good state of repair. It was a fortress, a crudish keep with well armoured and armed soldiers on the inner and outer walls, men that seemed calmer than those who rampaged through the city. There was a moat, but it was still and filled with old blood rather than water, the drawbridge of rusted iron almost always down. All around it mounds of skulls were piled, and many more alongside decaying heads decorated pikes upon the walls.

Deep within the heat keep, a large throne crudely beaten out of brass was laid in a room filled with skulls, trophies and weapons of the Vermillion Knight and notable enemies. Skulls of humans, daemons, mutants, ork warlords, huge monsters and alien were nailed or hung to the walls and ceiling. Candles of bloody wax gave the room its light, along with the pungent stink of burning blood. Behind the throne, chain-axes, swords, axes, spears, dagger, scimitars and countless other weapons designed to shed blood and kill hung. Along with the skulls on the walls, a few helmets of Space Marines. One was of the Emperor's children, three from the Word Bearers hung next to ten of the Black Legion. Eight were from the Marines Malevolent, a further sixteen from the Ultramarines.

The Vermillion Knight was easily ten feet in height, with dark red skin, slitted yellow eyes and many horns, two huge and straight crowning his head and smaller, curved barbs down the sides to the very bottom, where two stuck out at his chin rather than curving upwards like the others. His teeth were all small fangs, or at least small for his size, and his nose was flat, two large vertical nostrils blowing out hot air that reeked of blood with his every breath. His huge hands ended in pointed black nails, as did his bare feet. His form was still roughly human, but hugely muscular. He was still dressed in what had been his power armour when he had been a Chaos Marine, scaled up and covered in symbols of Khorne, the gore red and gold plates now part of his very body, the symbol of he World Eaters proudly displayed upon his shoulder guard and left leg.

A chain-axe hung upon his back, a power sword was sheathed at his side. Both were exceptionally fine weapons, but notched and chipped with use.

He looked like any other daemon prince of Khorne - brutish but powerful. The reality was, however, that underneath his huge muscles and weapons the mind of a master tactician lurked. He enjoyed battle and killing, yes, and he could lose himself in bloodlust if he wished. There was a thirst there, and unending desire for blood, death and honour, but there was such huge restraint and self-control there also. The Vermillion Knight had long ago known that by thinking, by planning could more blood be spilled in Khorne's name. That was why he had become a daemon prince, unlike the sixteen remaining berserkers of his Legion under his command. Every one had lost themselves now, like almost every member of his Legion.

The Vermillion Knight longed for the day Khorne finally claimed the skull of one of his greatest and most favoured champions, Khârn the Betrayer. It was an ambition of the Knight to own that skull. He did not truly want to kill the cursed man, but he wanted the man's skull. He had shattered their Legion, upon that frozen hell. He remembered that day well, remembered the confusion and then the battles that ensued as his Legion tore itself apart. He had been one fo the few who had appealed for calm, cried out for it to stop, to no avail. He had been forced to defend himself from frenzied men of his own Legions, some fo which were his friends. He left the battle with forty three marines loyal to him, all still thinking warriors disgusted with Khârn. Time had killed most, and left the remainder as more faceless berserkers. Angron didn't care what had become fo his Legion, he too was too far given to Khorne to care about anything other than the sound of blade upon flesh.

The Vermillion Knight did not resent Khorne in the slightest, he loved the god he worshipped for freeing them and for giving him a purpose, but he was often sad at the loss of his brothers.

His servants upon the world that was his fell into four broad and rough categories. The first was that of those who had mostly had little choice but serve Khorne, newer devotees of the Blood God who had changed little before their worship of the God. These were basically normal men, but they would either die or change soon enough.

The second group were those who fought for Khorne happily, with abandon, the younger servants usually. They believed in honour, fought honourably and believed in whatever causes they would. Many still fired guns, many champions and leaders emerged, dripping blood, from this group to lead armies.

The third group was the fate of most of the second if they survived. Berserkers, killers to whom any concept of honour had drowned under an ocean of blood. They cared only for death. You would have to repeat their names for them to know they were being addressed. They did not make leaders, but they were among the greatest and least valuable of his soldiers.

The fourth group was that which he fell into. Older servants too strong-willed to give in to their bloodlust entirely. They fought with tactics, intelligence more so than even the newest of Khornate converts. He respected these more than any other, even if some said theirs was not the true path pf Khorne.

They were wrong. Khorne cared not from whom the blood flowed, he asked for nothing of his troops but they be honourable and strong. A thinker would be more exalted than a berserker as his schemes would lead to more death, more blood and victory. To win a battle was to fight in another, and another.

Currently the Vermillion Knight was speaking to a new servant, Jeruss of Cadia. He had brung a platoon of corrupted troops into the Eye of escape Imperial retribution, and he had come to the Vermillion Knight for succour. He had naturally agreed - such troops were valuable, armed well with guns and young in their years.

Jeruss himself was a muscular man, dressed in a tattered uniform from which all Imperial symbols had been crudely but throughly removed.. His old Cadian helmet had an eight-pointed star carved into it, and his bare left arm was tattooed with the symbol of Khorne. He had a thin face, pale, with the violet eyes of Cadian. His nose was small, his lips tight. His hair was lightish brown, and his features were soft, offset by the hardness of his eyes. A worn laspistol hung on his belt, alongside a crude axe that had seen much use. What would he become? Another nameless corpse in but a few battles, having been bled dry by his god? A champion worthy of leading his men or joining his inner cadre of wise skilled troops? Or just another berserker that would fight his fists and teeth when his axe was gone?

Deep down, the Vermillion Knight didn't care. More soldiers to replace the honoured dead. More troops to kill and die for Khorne, to give their blood to the greatest of all gods.

He was kneeling now, cutting his hand and letting the sacred blood drop before the brass throne of the Vermillion Knight, who was passed the ceremonial knife by a huge attendant, a blood priest in a red robe. It was made of brass. Drops of rich daemon blood dripped onto the tiny stain that had been Jeruss's, and a pact was made. It was sealed by the two, and every honoured soldier who had witnessed it, screaming the chorus they lived and died for and by.

"Blood for the Blood God!"


	4. Chapter 4: The Gathering Storm

A great fleet was amassing at last, the various ships of the Seraph gathering, pleasure seeking Slaaneshi warbands and pirates joining the fleet. It was a mismatched flotilla, brightly coloured pleasure-barges alongside scarred old warships that had travelled the Eye of Terror for millennia. Some of these ships were alive now, like living organisms as devoted to pleasure as their occupants that scurried like parasites inside them, launching fighters as though they were children. Ships had grown great pincers of metal, and new weapons that fired bolts of energy and sorcery had often simply grown over time. A fleet that would have been called a Black Crusade had it been directed at the Cadian gate, a truly dangerous threat.

It could not be hidden, and Dagon had already increased the strength of his outermost garrisons and patrols. The Tzeentchian D'Karreth had done the same, and was pulling back a smaller fleet from taking an unimportant world to defend her young empire which could be swatted aside like an insolent insect by the forces amassing. A mortal stood little chance in creating an empire here against daemons and hers would not survive in the opinions of all of her uncaring neighbours. Pirates in nearby areas that had been lawless and free were moving away, worried that this fleet was to pacify these places and destroy them.

The Vermillion Knight did not have an intelligence network, but he did have scryers. Psykers were dishonourable, so he used tortured captives that could be put to use like any other slave. He was aware of the fleet, but had no idea it was being readied to destroy him. How could he? As far as he was aware, few knew of his existence or cared, and the Seraph was not among them.

Had he known, he would have welcomed the battle. A chance to slay the pathetic servants of the Flesh God was never to be ignored.

Where did a Doomed One live? A homeless traveller by definition, it wandered, driven by its desire for vengeance alone. Kheléqui was more complex than that, as were all Doomed Ones. To willing give ones soul takes more than rage, and it was for this reason he was a servant of Malal rather than Khorne.

Kheléqui had been betrayed by the Imperium and the man he had trusted, Inquisitor Helghast who had taken him in and trained him in the ways of his order. Inquisitor Helghast, who had destroyed his homeworld Scylla because it was tainted by chaos, and only saved one man. Helghast, who had hidden this from him.

Kheléqui hated chaos for what it did to people, what it made them do and for taking their souls. He hated the Imperium for the same reasons.

Here he was almost happy. A place were humans lived free of both, atheists living on a single world, hidden from the Imperium and from chaos in a useless area, surrounded by dead worlds, gas giants and empty systems, universally ignored. He did not interfere with them, but he came here when he had nothing else to do but wait and watch the people. He watched them with envy of their freedom, sadness as he was reminded of his own world and rage at those who would kill them.

They possessed good technology, enough for a comfortable existence, but they had abandoned warp capability. They knew what was out there, and for that precise reason wanted to stay here.

Kheléqui no longer slept, but as night came he lay back and stared up at the cruel stars, as beautiful and deadly as Slaanesh itself. It was cruel universe that took men's souls. He had given his to take them back, but he did not see himself as a martyr, and if any others did he would be disgusted at them. To call someone a martyr was to be envious of them; any who was jealous of a Doomed One was a fool or a madman.

Kheléqui sighed to himself, and looked at the glittering lights of the people below, his changed eyes unable to display the strong emotion he felt.


	5. Chapter 5: Nascence

The chapel was dark, the only light coming from the flickering torches carried by several members of the robed congregation. Others waved censors, moaning prayers to Slaanesh. There were six hundred and sixty six of them, all dressed in robes of black, blue, purple, gold and silver embroidered with elegant patterns.

The room was totally plain with no glow-globes, decoration or even flooring panels. Every surface was red tissue that was slightly soft, and near the very heart of the Slaaneshi daemonic flagship. It required sacrifice to appease the ship's spirit before the journey could begin, for blood to pulse in the heart of the warp drive and give it the strength only death could provide.

Launcelot Akturris was one of six men standing on a fleshy dais, upon which a mobile altar has been placed. Five of the men were centurions like himself, the last the sorcerer who would lead the ceremony.

Launcelot wore shining electrum plate armour and a simple, rounded helm with a halo of golden spikes, the symbol of all centurions in the First Legion. A silken cloak with elegant patterns and golden thread trailed behind him. Akturris's face was pale, and marked with devotional scars shaped into the arcane symbols of his deity. His eyes were glittering orbs of gold, his teeth exquisite fangs, his tongue forked. His nose had long ago receded into his face, leaving two ragged slits for nostrils. Launcelot carried a slightly curved sword and a large shield emblazoned with the symbol of Slaanesh hung on his back. He refused firearms, he preferred to feel the pain and deaths of his victims from up close. His hidden body was a mass of self-inflicted scars, many of which were fresh.

The sorcerer was a tall man, who looked like he died a long time ago. He probably had. His eyes were deep-set and milky, his dry skin hanging to a wasted frame. Golden lips split into a smile, revealing bloodied teeth. The Dark Tongue spilled from his lips, praising Slaanesh. Launcelot's eyes lazily surveyed the audience.

Two of the centurions marched out and returned with a writhing captive. He was naked, scarred and muscular, with wild eyes and hair. A large burn on his chest showed were his devotional tattoo had been removed by his captors, who considered it an affront. His tongue had been cut out, and he was gagged. The man still roared inarticulately, trying to headbutt the centurions who restrained him.

A champion of the Blood God. Not a man anymore, a wild beast. It was a tragedy that any creature could give their humanity so, to give up the joys of sensation!

He would be taught. Unwillingly, he would be anointed with pain. His mind was too small to comprehend the honour done to him.

He was placed in the altar, and the powerful straps were attached to his arms and legs in two places, to his chest and abdomen and finally to his forehead. They were tight, digging his skin, but still he struggled in vain.

The sorcerer raised a hand, and barbed, hooked chains burst from the walls, cutting into the Khornate sacrifice. It was not a fast death. They tore slowly at flesh, peeling back skin, teasing as much pain as possible from him, guided by the sorcerer. One gouged out an eyeball, and the chant continued, growing faster and louder. The chains writhed as though dancing around the sacrifice.

To die like this! Dishonour! Such dishonour! He had to redeem himself, to break free, and slaughter every living thing and cleanse himself in blood... To die like this! Not in battle, but as a broken captive, ripped apart by weakling whelps of the Flesh God!

Finally, hooked chains snaked towards him, digging into his sides and pulling his ribcage open with a sound like cracking wood. The bloody sorcerer reached inside and pulled out the man's heart, holding it aloft before if burst into cold flame in his gnarled hand.

Every drop of blood that touched the floor was sopped by the thirsty daemonship. It demanded more.

The sorcerer's grin widened, suddenly thousands more chains burst from the walls, killing the congregation. They screamed as chains burst through them, tore off faces, strangled them and drove barbs into their pale flesh. The centurions grinned as one, the chains avoiding the six chosen men of Slaanesh upon the dais.

Within a minute it was over, and the daemonship slipped into the warp with a contented scream.

The fleet was underway.


	6. Chapter 6: Inside the Mirror Sphere

The Seraph watched in its new mirror-sphere, watching its fleet slip into the warp and head towards the territories of the Vermillion Knight.

Mirrors. Perhaps only the Seraph had seen their power. It was likely born from its youth, when it had been mortal and vain, checking its flawlessness in mirrors. If two mirrors were put together, however, with the right curve you could see endless reflections. Mirrors contained infinity. This chamber contained infinity. The only challenge was refining this to certain points. The Seraph was getting better all the time - he had gazed upon the Imperial Palace from afar, he had seen the Byossos at the heart of the Eye of Terror, the very spot where Slaanesh had been created. He had looked back in time, to see Horus fight the Emperor, to see the Fall of the Eldar, and it looked ahead to divine the future.

Now it could see, faintly, a thousand skirmishes, battles between allies. Khorne did not make real cities, they were only ever temporary resting places for their inhabitants, bar those who would rest there for all eternity.

A wooden coliseum creaked with the weight of the howling audience, waiting for bloody games to begin. Many were fighting in the stands, unable to wait.

So crude and barbaric. This Vermilion Knight may be a thinker, but with animals for servants the war would be won easily.

It smiled, and steepled its fingers. Things were going well.


	7. Chapter 7: Divinations in Blood

Another watched, or at least listened. The death-boxes that contained his captive psykers echoed with the usual screams, crazed mumbles and dying gurgles.

"What is happening?" growled the Vermillion Knight.

The death-boxes were like square coffins with a single hole above the mouth for air and so that the words of the captive scryers could be heard. The prisoners within could not manifest their powers through them, sigils of warding and nullification carved onto their surfaces. They bled into tubes which snaked back into their bodies through a single, collective machine. They had become almost one being now, but many died within minutes of being entombed. Others took longer, but all died in the end. This gestalt consciousness, named the Choir, was a confusing entity, speaking in riddles none could understood, including itself. Straight answers were rare, and spoke of the definite.

The dark room was located in the darkest bowels of the fortress, near the dungeons as though the Vermillion Knight thought the psykers might pollute his fastness. He probably did.

"The fleet of the Flesh God moves," said one.

"It comes here," said another.

"They come to destroy you," added a third.

The Vermillion Knight was surprised, but he kept his calm. "Why?"

"The old power returns."

"The Hated One."

"The Doomed One."

"Malice."

"Spite."

"What is this? How does this make the Seraph attack me? How does he know of my empire of blood?" spat the Vermillion Knight.

"He was told."

"A deal was made in the gazes of the echo."

"A deal between black and white."

"Void, and oblivion."

"How soon?" the Vermilion Knight continued.

"Soon," one said.

"The warp is capricious," said another.

"Do they pose any threat to me?"

"Yes."

Resounding silence.

"Can I win this war?"

"Nothing is corporeal. All is dust and mirrors."

"What is causing all this?"

"The Doomed One."

"The Hated One."

"Black and White."

Suddenly they all began to scream in unison, crying a single chant over and over again. Within the death-boxes, many proved the name to be abt, shuddering as they died through psychic feedback.

"Black and White! Black and White! Black and White!"

Most died in that moment, and as the Vermillion Knight left the dark chamber growling angrily their words echoed behind him.


	8. Chapter 8: Interrogation

A large, muscular man struggled with his bonds. His body was covered in scars from a life of hardship, one eye was missing. He was bound to a cold metal table with leather straps, around his wrists, upper arms, ankles, upper legs, chest, abdomen and forehead, within a padlocked cage with crackling void shield around it, within a room with a sealed blast door which could be flooded with toxic gases in an instant. He was starving, having refused all food offered to him. He could never escape this prison, it was massively overdone, but he was the only prisoner within this palace.

On the far side of the room, a simple mirror hung. A grinning female face, pale and beautiful, looked out of it. She had long, flowing hair of dark red and mischievous, twinkling violet eyes.

"Whore! Whore of the Flesh God!"

"Yes, yes, get it out your system," she replied to the caged man calmly.

The man roared inarticulately, shaking the table even though it was screwed firmly to the floor.

"So, Servant of Blood, tell me, what is your purpose?"

"To kill! In Khorne's name, to shed blood and claim skulls!"

"That is all? You do not aspire to glory, you care for nothing but death?"

"Blood for the Blood God!"

"Ah, the usual chorus of a berserker who is faced with a question he cannot answer. Tell me, what would you do now?"

"I would kill you! And every weakling in your city!"

"You can't, though. Somewhere in that roiling sea of testosterone you call a brain there must be a small part of you that knows you cannot escape this table, let alone the cage, or the power field, or the door. You simply cannot kill not even yourself. Would you kill yourself, if you could?"

Here the woman's voice changed, her interest clearly piqued.

The man remained silent.

"You are helpless, bound and caged. You can't kill. What are you now? What is your purpose now?"

A pause.

"I have none."

The woman pressed home her advantage.

"You are nothing, then. No mind, no heart, no soul, just death to whatever you can kill. A beast, nothing more."

"You are a stupid whore. You serve the Flesh God. If you could not feel, what are you? Then you are nothing. I am death. You? You are a joke! Sensation is an illusion of the flesh! Death! Death is the only way to experience anything! Free of the mortal world!"

A long pause.

The mirror was empty once more, and the victorious captive laughed to himself.


	9. Chapter 9: Blood for the Blood God

A huge, baying crowd sat, stood and lounged in stale wooden stands, awaiting combat. There was no order, none dared police the mob. Fights occurred unnoticed.

A speaker stepped slowly onto the coliseum, this cathedral of Khorne's pulpit. It creaked under his weight.

"The whelps of the Flesh God come! They come for war!" he cried, his bass voice loud enough to be heard throughout the coliseum and beyond.

The speaker was met with roars, cries of triumph, curses and the usual chorus.

He was a huge champion of Khorne, standing nine feet in height, dressed in heavy plate armour. He was one the Vermillion Knight's inner cadre, a thinker as well as a fighter.

He finished it. "Skulls for the Skull Throne! There will be many skulls for us to take! We will show them strength, show them power, show them honour!"

The assembled Khornate warriors roared.

"Now, let the games commence! Let us prepare our bloodlust for the glorious days ahead!"

More cries from the crowd, as the gladiators entered the arena. Volunteers, all. The first was a tall, thin man with two long rapiers, dressed in hardened leather. The next was a huge man with a massive axe, topless, but wearing a horned helm, and chained gauntlets. Behind him skulked a diminutive warrior with a beaked helm, a small axe and a curved sword. He wore an overlarge chainmail vest and a brass collar.

The final contestant was a clear favourite. A giant mutant, with three eyes upon a vast forehead. It had a huge gut and huge claws in clumsy hands. It was utterly naked, but the skin looked tough, like the hide of some large and powerful creature.

They squared off, and it was a question of who would attack first. It was destined to be short, these were berserkers all.

The topless man roared and swung his axe at the tall man, who ducked and put his rapiers into a scissor shape, and sliced off his head The crowd roared at the sight of blood, Rayna joining the chant of "Blood! Blood! Blood!" gleefully from behind a wooden grille. Scuffles were breaking out in the rotting wooden stands. It would be seconds before the combatants there drew weapons.

The tiny man was dancing gleefully around the huge ogre-like mutant, who was too slow. The dwarf left countless slashes and cuts on the monster's belly and legs, but they only seemed to enrage it further. As the tall man advanced, it caught the dwarf and flung him into the air, wailing.

He landed in the maw of the monster, which was revealed as being larger than was natural, extending and widening. He was not swallowed, but he was chewed throughly before being spat upon the ground. Unfortunately, the tall man had leapt onto the monster's back by this point, and had stabbed one rapier deep. The creature screamed and tried to grab him, but other sword was stabbed deep into its head. It moaned, and fell, dead. The tall man pulled out his swords and screamed his victory, drenched in blood.

The crowd roared in reply, and another three men ran out. One was dressed in the threadbare remains of a Cadian uniform, carrying a axe. Another was a young man, barely older than a boy, naked and carrying a massive, two handed greatsword. The last was Rayna, dressed and armed for battle.

The games began.


	10. Chapter 10: A Forgotten Duel

The Seraph's mirror flickered to the past.

The images were clear, perfect. He had been there, after all, but now he watched from the third person.

_Burning buildings filled with death and screams were the backdrop for the final battle. Blood rained down in a heavy downpour, the sign of a daemon world in pain. It had been so for days, and rivers and lakes of blood were forming in every gully and depression. The Seraph of old, in his warrior form, screamed at his foe in darkest rage. It was ten feet in height, tall, thin and dressed in armour like carapace, golden and decorated with countless jewels. It carried no weapons, fighting with fists inside gauntlets of polished platinum studded with rubies and tipped with diamond claws. It wore no helm, and pure gold hair spilled behind it, caught in the wind. A beautiful but androgynous face was twisted in hatred. It had silver eyes, and gleaming teeth whiter than snow could ever hope to be through which a red tongue flickered._

The Seraph smiled at its young self who thought gold and jewels mattered. How it had matured since then.

"_Doomed One! You will not destroy me!" the young daemon screamed, its voice still harmonising with itself even in such murderous anger._

"_You are young, daemon prince. You cannot stand against me. I have toppled your city, destroyed your legions. You are defeated," replied the old Doomed One slowly._

He was similar yet different to the new, the self-styled Hand of Malal. As far the Seraph knew this one had no name, he had not given one. He had been a shot from the dark, leading armies driven by spite and malice.

_He was tall and wore armour, which looked as though it was made of polished plastic, skull-white and jet-black. A simple black cloak spilled behind him, and he carried a white katana in one bare hand and a black mace in the other. The sword was so white it was dazzling, the mace so dark it was hard to make out the shape. The warrior's face was thin, sallow with eyes of black and white. The man's hair was a spiked crown of onyx flecked with white._

_The Doomed One attacked, swinging the midnight mace at the Seraph, who raised an armoured fist to block the blow. It struck hard upon the daemon's arm, and it hissed in pain, slamming an open palm into the chestplate of the Doomed One. The Malalite flew backwards a good fifty metres, smashing into the foot of burning skyscraper, leaving an actual indentation in the metal. Such a blow should have killed anything. The Chosen of Malal rose with hatred in his face, and threw aside his cloak. The Seraph charged, and the katana swung, leaving a crimson cut on his perfect face. The Doomed One was thrown angrily into the air, but wings of white fire seemed to burst from his back, holding him suspended in the air. The Seraph grinned up at him and flew up after him, levitating effortlessly. They flew into each other in the red sky, fists smashing into the Doomed One, the mace denting the armour of the Slaaneshi lord, and the sword slicing off a hand. It burst into flame as it fell down towards the ever-more distant ground, another growing from the bleeding stump in moments._

_The broke apart, circling in the air before smashing once more into each other. The mace and sword were thrown aside, tumbling to earth as the Doomed One struggled to fight the daemon from such a close distance. He had no need of them anyway, they were just focuses for his power. A fist would serve just as well. _

_They rained blows down upon each other, drenched in the crimson downpour. Fist, knee and elbow met hand, chest face and both screamed in pain and rage. _

_The Seraph grabbed its foe from behind, the wings of purest fire burning his body with all the hate and spite of Malal. It screamed, and flew downwards, dragging the struggling Doomed One. An abt name, it seemed now, as the ground approached. A visibly extending lake of blood was below. That was where they were to hit the ground. _

_The wing-fires went black and the Seraph's musical screams grew louder, but his grip grew tighter and the two smashed into the lake of blood and to the concrete floor below it. There was a great explosion of blood, and a great crater beneath the surface showed where they had struck. They slammed fists and knees into each other, rolling on the bottom of the lake, injured and as bloody as what they fought in. _

_There were no watchers, few were still alive and those who were were struggling to remain so. The surface of the lake rippled, and finally something emerged._

_The Seraph, drenched and red exploded out of the lake, screaming its victory to the wounded sky. _

_A second later, the screaming Doomed One burst out, flying towards the Seraph, blood flying off his form._

For the Seraph that watched, time slowed to a crawl.

_The daemon turned, his eyes widening in surprise that his foe was still alive. His expression hardened as the Malalite closed in, and he swung his arm one last time in a punch that slammed into the mortal's head, snapping his neck and sending his broken body falling into the blood below._

He had done it before. He could surely do it again.

Still, this Vermillion Knight was an abomination and it would exalt Slaanesh for him to be put down. When the Hand returned in the distant future he would be destroyed by the Seraph once and for all, and so the machinations of Malal would break once more. Nothing could stand before the power of the Dark Prince, master of pleasure and pain, the twin vices of all humanity.


	11. Chapter 11: Damnation

A Doomed One dwells on the past often. They have so much there. It was almost time for the Hand of Malal to become a fist, but he was remembering the sequence of events that had led to his damnation. His hard, simple life on Scylla, daily battling monsters for the good of the tribe, for protection and food. His deliverance at the hands of Caligula Helghast, Imperial Inquisitor. His life as an Interrogator. The murder of his master. His quest for vengeance. And the conclusion...

"_Why do you do this, Kheléqui? Why do you persist so?" sneered his nemesis, an ugly man clearly mutated by chaos. His eyes were bloodshot yellow, his skin greyish, his filthy hair in black dreadlocks. His voice had an aggressive edge to it, words being spat from his mouth as though eager to leave. He was holding tightly to a bleeding stump where his hand had been removed, lying a good metre away still clutching his bulky pistol. Kheléqui was aiming his own sidearm at his head, a bloody sword in the other. _

"_To avenge my master, Caligula Helghast. For the Imperium and Inquisition. For the Emperor. For my home, Scylla. And for revenge," replied Kheléqui slowly, a cold and perfectly enunciated drawl._

"_You fool! Scylla is dead! An exterminatus! All dead, down to the last man, woman and child!"_

"_Liar! Silence!"_

"_You are the last of your kind! Do you know who did it? Who it was who murdered your world? It's time to see where your loyalties lie, Kheléqui. Revenge indeed. You have no idea, do you?"_

_Despite himself, Kheléqui felt a morbid curiosity. "Speak, traitor!" he spat._

"_Inquisitor Caligula Helghast," the man replied simply._

"_Liar! Shut your mouth!"_

"_Check! Check your facts, _Interrogator!_ An important lesson for an aspiring Inquisitor. _He_ killed your world - it was tainted by chaos. The monsters there were more than just beasts, they were daemons. Most tribes served the Chaos Gods - yours was one of the few who deserved saving to him. But he saved only one man from a whole world; you. For Scylla? Scylla is dead! For Helghast? He killed it! For the Inquisition and Imperium? They sanctioned it! For the Emperor? He abandoned and betrayed you! That leaves only one thing; revenge. You're taking it out on the wrong people! You should be on _my_ side, Kheléqui! Chaos is your only option!"_

_Kheléqui pulled the trigger._

_He then tore off his cloak and the Inquisitorial brooch, shooting at it until it was no longer recognisable, his gun was empty and the ground was marked by the crushed stubs of shells that had missed._

_The man could have been lying, but he had such malicious glee in his tainted eyes. Only the truth could give such a look._

_Kheléqui screamed in anger. Everything he had ever stood for, gone in a few moments and words._

_Thoughts of suicide flooded him, but he shook his head sadly._

_No. He would have his revenge. None would be spared it. The Imperium. The Inquisition. The servants of dark chaos._

_He would topple the Emperor from his throne. He would kill every warrior who stood in his way. He would destroy the chaos gods. He would leave nothing. Nothing._

_Revenge. That was all that was left for him._

_A voice rushed into his thoughts from his head where it had been waiting for some time. It spoke to him, offering him the power to do so, for this creature's goals and his were one. It was outcast, weak, shunned but feared by all. It offered more power than any other, but this was a master that did not lie to its servants - They had to willing chose total damnation to be granted the might._

"_Yes...Yes... Yes! I care not for damnation and ruination! I am yours! Malal! Malal! MALAL!"_

_Doomed One Kheléqui threw aside his empty pistol - he had no need of it anymore._

"_Malal..."_


End file.
